Why We Need to Recognize Undocumented Peoples' Power

"We are powerful — and it’s time that the world knows that too."

In this op-ed, Yosimar Reyes explains why undocumented immigrants need to be given power over their own stories — and their own lives.

I am powerful – and I’ve always known that.

When I was 10, my abuela told me I was undocumented. She did this not to scare me but to convey that I would have to work twice as hard to make something of myself in this country. At an early age, I was forced to make peace with the fact that my life as an undocumented queer was going to be one filled with challenges — the biggest one being not allowing the limitations set for me by the government to stop me from living a life filled with joy.

Coming out of the shadows was not a phenomenon for me. I grew up in East San Jose, California, in a community with strong, established mechanisms for survival. We created our own rules to keep afloat and an “underground railroad” of resources. You’d know which coyote was reliable to cross your loved ones over and which jobs hired undocumented people.

I never saw my life as an undocumented person as anything worth discussing. I never imagined that in the future, there would be scholars forensically analyzing the ways in which we survive.

“Undocumented” has never been my identity. It is a social condition constructed by the U.S. government that keeps me from my dreams.

Immigration entered the national spotlight in 2006, with the “Great American Boycott,” on May 1. Despite the fact that undocumented immigrants had been living in the U.S. long before 2006, our little boycott garnered international attention. Reporters and filmmakers became interested in our narratives. The media went wild looking for all the undocumented people they could showcase. Due to social media trends, journalists were able to immediately access young people brought here as kids who wanted to pursue higher education. The stage was set for us to become DREAMers, a term born out of a piece of failed federal legislation called the DREAM Act.

We saw a rise of undocumented people being featured in news specials and documentaries. It was particularly interesting that we were constantly asked to relive our trauma: “How did you find out you were ille- I mean, undocumented?”

But instead of being asked to recount our pains to better understand ourselves as undocumented people, our narratives were weaponized to create a moral crisis for citizens — a bloc of people with actual voting power.

The very same autonomous, independent undocumented people I grew up with were chopped and edited to become victims with no agency. None of this made sense. I never wanted to be showcased crying on camera. Being undocumented was an experience only to be shared with folks in my same predicament. We did not and do not need saving. What we needed was for people to understand how this country reaps and exploits the (often literal) fruits of our labor, so that we could move forward with creating practical immigration laws that make sense.

We needed them to see that immigration is not a people problem but one set forth by racialized policies. The immigration conversation has been framed as a social problem, but we need citizens to understand that immigration is a racial justice issue. Certain immigrants are targeted as being “problematic” based on their race.

Beyond being undocumented within the borders of the U.S., we represent migrants globally who are forced to leave their homes because of the economic imperialism countries like the U.S. have over our homelands.

Since 2006, undocumented people were positioned as subjects who constantly needed to prove their loyalty to this country while simultaneously having to live up to the expectation of being a “good” immigrant — law-abiding, taxpaying, and contributing. The good immigrants aren’t like the myths nativists promote — the lazy criminals who rip off the system.

In 2008, then-Senator Barack Obama swayed the Latinx vote with promises to pass comprehensive immigration reform by the end of his first year as president. After completing two terms, Obama left with the legacy of being the “Deporter-in-Chief.” He deported more than 3 million people — a new record for an administration.

The 2012 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) executive order, a form of administrative change granting work permits and relief from deportation, is undeniably one of the biggest “wins” to come out of the immigrant justice movement in recent history. Many attribute it to Obama’s goodwill, but immigrant youths remember otherwise.

Since the death of the DREAM Act, many young activists shifted away from respectability politics and opted to demand action from the president. Although Democrats wanted undocumented people to show their pride for this country by calling them DREAMers and giving them American flags to wave, many of us simply got tired. The expectation to constantly prove ourselves and fit into the narratives set out for us were unrealistic, exhausting, and dehumanizing, so undocumented immigrants started disrupting Democrats and Republicans alike. They shut down campaign offices. They went rogue.

The reality is that undocumented people are not monolithic. There are about 11 million undocumented people in the U.S. and therefore 11 million complex narratives from all over the world. Now more than ever, undocumented storytelling needs to disrupt the “good immigrant” and “criminal alien” dichotomy. It must consist of a spectrum of stories that allow undocumented people to be human. Our voices as undocumented people need to be the focal point as opposed to being edited for a citizen audience.

War was declared on undocumented communities when America handed Trump the presidency. What we need now is for undocumented people to lead with agency. The framework of our stories should be edited BY US, FOR US. Amid a national conversation hell-bent on making us political pawns, we must stand up to Republicans and demand our stories be central — in every newscast, op-ed, or article about policies impacting our lives.

Let it be known that undocumented people have never needed saving; that we are simply people caught in a game of political football. Let it be known that we’re powerful, because waking up every morning to a country that vilifies you and choosing to actively participate is an act of resilience.

We are powerful – and it’s time that the world knows that too. It’s time for undocumented people to have agency, to create, to dissent, and to have our joy.

Yosimar Reyes is the artist in residence at Define American, a media and culture organization dedicated to shifting the conversation surrounding immigration and identity in a changing America. He is a nationally acclaimed poet, educator, performance artist, and public speaker. Born in Guerrero, Mexico, and raised in East San Jose, California, Reyes explores the themes of migration and sexuality in his work.